Arabesque
.
.
Lunchtime brings me
Not hunger for food
But wanderlust,
And I find myself
Reaching for Debussy on
A beat-up, scratched-up,
But still shined-up
Black Steinway-and-Sons
Grand piano on a darkened
Stage, the scent of
Fresh paint lying thick
Over the air. Even on
Muted ebony-and-ivory
Keys are the notes still
Crisp and clear, pure
Crystal-on-a-glass-pedestal,
Even when the notes
Blur to the point of
Unrecognition, until
It's no longer individual
Sounds I'm hearing
But rather one chord that
Reverberates and hangs
Heavily over the empty
Rows of theater chairs
And rough carpeting
Before lighly kissing
The back wall one last time
And fading to silence.
I close the tired polished
Wooden lid and disappear
Into the black curtain.